Caesura Walking down a path beside a stream,I hear a dozen singing birds, a chorusof frogs, the happy honking of two visitingducks and I stop, suddenly to listen—whenevery voice falls silent, except for the gurglingstream. I feel a myriad of tiny eyes and ears all aimedat me, a cautious fear that makes their silence socomplete. Bereft of concert, I resume my walk;the birds resume their chatter, the frogs their songs,the ducks call out: “It's safe! He's gone!” How sad that their relief is now my own deep sense of loss.

Smoking!A poem for jazz accompaniment It was ’53 in ‘Frisco when I emerged at 16 from the fog of adolescenceInto the thick sooty smog of the city streets,swimming through black smoke bellowing from a million cars and trucks, planes and trains, gray smoke coiling from the lips of 100 million people puffing King Size, Regular, filtered and flavored cigarettes, cigars, and pipes…tobacco smoke swirling in restaurant fansstreaming from open car windows, smoke in most offices,smoke before breakfast, smoke after lunch, smoke every coffee break,smoke in back of school until they caught me, but most especially smoke in bars like the jazz cellar…*(“A Train” starts w/sax intro)down tobacco stained stairs beneath a north beach pizza pub,smoke so thick I had to squint to see across the crowded room; jazz musicians were blowing their brains out next to the bar,Ellington’s A-Train floating us to Harlem on a smooth tenor riff,Piano, bass & drums driving the train as Brew Moor sippedfrom a smoking cigarette clipped next to his mouthpieceso's he could smoke and blow at the same time…And when he blew, white smoke swirled from the bell of his horn,forming rings of soulful sounds with every exhaled phrase,and I shivered, thrilled, pressing my 6 foot skinny body back against the plush red lounge, silently sipping my coke, trying 2 lay low, 2 be cool, 2 just dig the music and become like smoke, invisible…Then Brew stopped blowing... *(sax stops and bass solos) and the bass soloed with a rhythmic plucking and slapping of stringswhile Big Bill Wijon laid down rail-like chords, blue notes weeping from his fingertips while a cigarette dangled from his lips,the ash growing steadily longer, his head wreathed in a cloud of smoke… Then the drummer rattled our bones *(bass)…and Brew returned *(sax counts in last chorus of “A Train and out”) singing again through his smoking horn, and they were all blowing at oncea glorious free-for-all cacophony the audience joined by shouting“Yes!” and “Say it, brother!” and “Go, man, Go!”…as the band blew the A Train all the way back home,gliding to a stop at the station… *(All Music Stops)…and the waterfall of sound was silent. Such wild applause! The musicians were sweating, smiling,bowing to the audience, most of us on our feet, clapping in appreciation until, Across the room, a cocktail waitress glanced my way. Oh, Shit! I shook a Chesterfield from its cellophane pack and flamed it with a flick of my dad’s old silver army lighter, drawing in a breath while smoke curled out of my nostrils into my mouth, my one suave trick to try and look older, just as the waitress arrived. She looked me up and down: “Neat trick, kid,” she said, “Can I see your ID?” I coughed, and blew a smoke of words as I fumbled for my wallet: “Gee, I already showed this at the doorwhen I paid my cover…” I passed her my fake ID and a $10 dollar bill. “I live for this music, don’t you? And they’re playing so beautiful tonight…I sure would like another coke, my throat feels dry, and you can keep the change…”“Now you’re talking kid.”She gave back my ID. “You want a cherry in it?”“Yum,” I grinned. She winked. “You guys are all alike!” She turned and worked her way back across the room toward the bar.

As if on cue Brew finished his beer and placed the empty bottle on top of Bill’s upright piano, and the drummer said, “Let’s pick up the pace!” Brew sucked a long deep drag from his ever-burning butt:“Out of nowhere, man--B flat,” he said with in-held breath…*(sax counts in “Out of Nowhere” …3, 4!)He blew an explosion of smoke from his horn, plunging us all into nowhere at supersonic speed, the band racing to keep up with him.The cramped room crackled with high electricity, the thick air swirled beneath the lonely ceiling fan, and then a cherry coke appeared, I sipped, and once again the world was right, the band was smoking,the whole house rocked like a train car smoking through time…*(Sax fades out, then walking bass accompanies...) …and later that night, walking up market street alone at two in the morning, smoking my last cigarette, I hummed & whistled as I walked, snapping my fingers and stomping my feet, twitching my lips to imitate trumpet and saxophone sounds, scatting immeasurable riffs all the way back to our rented family flat on Hayes street…smoking, yes, smoking that jazz! *(sax cadenza, bass holds on Bb Maj.7) Artist, teacher, ex-San Francisco cop, published author, Wedding Minister, Board President, Santa Cruz Art League, T. Mike Walker grew up in San Francisco and received his MA in Language Arts from San Francisco State University, where he taught Creative Writing from 1962-1965. His first novel, A Way From The World: A Policeman’s Journal, was published in 1970 by Grove Press. His humorous novel, RESPECT, reflects a portion of his experience teaching high school in the Haight Asbury District. In 1966, he created his first 2D Collage art pieces and sold them through the Psychedelic Shop on Haight Street in San Francisco. He taught English and Creative Writing at Cabrillo Community College from 1968 -98, when he retired from teaching and returned to creating visual art. In 2004 he joined the Board at the Santa Cruz Art League, becoming President of the Board from 2006-2013. In addition to mixed media collage, Walker paints in watercolor and acrylics. He has exhibited widely in Santa Cruz County for over a decade, appearing in many group and juried exhibitions as well as solo shows.

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